


By Being My Friend

by kayura_sanada



Series: For Good [25]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Act III, Angst, Betrayal, Canon Has Happened Between One Shots, Decisions, Dragon Age Quest: Alone, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Struggles, Heartbreak, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of past abuse, You Got It You Got It Bad, mentions of past rape/non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-11
Updated: 2018-01-11
Packaged: 2019-03-03 13:16:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13342017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayura_sanada/pseuds/kayura_sanada
Summary: After all these years, Fenris is finally about to meet his sister, Varania.





	By Being My Friend

**Author's Note:**

> I see where Varania’s coming from. But if you think that excuses her actions, then you’re wrong.

He sent letter after letter. At first, his attempts fell on, while not deaf ears, then certainly cynical ones. He could understand. Whatever she may remember of the brother she used to know, this Varania he’d managed to find wouldn’t know him the way he was now any more than he would know her. He had spent a horrible amount of coin simply finding her, sending mercenaries and viddathari into Tevinter to hunt her down. The desk in his room had seen more efforts in his attempts to reach her than it had when he’d been practicing to write in the first place.

It took years. Years of huddling over a lantern in the dark, years of pacing his rooms waiting to hear if she’d been found, if she’d given him up, if she’d believed his explanations. If she accepted that he’d lost his memory, and had only learned of her through his old master’s apprentice. Simply tracking her down had been almost impossible; she’d left the service of the magister she’d apparently been servant of and had become, of all things, a tailor, despite apparently having magic. He tried to imagine having a seamstress for a sister and lost himself at the very idea. He was a warrior. He didn’t remember ever being anything else. Such a normal, simple life seemed so far beyond him that it didn’t seem right that it intersect with his past in any way. Yet, at the same time, he loved it. The idea of a life not unlike that which Hawke had once lived, growing up on farms, growing crops and raising cattle. A mage living a wholesome, simple life. If Hawke could come from a past like that into what he dealt with now, then surely even someone like him could have had such humble beginnings.

And then. And then, and then, he asked if she would be willing to come join him. And she’d agreed.

Just thinking about it made his heart nearly beat out of his chest all over again.

Of course, getting her to come all the way to Kirkwall hadn’t been easy. He’d been as careful as he could be, checking for a month every time he received a reply letter, watching the streets of Hightown and deliberately heading out of the city multiple times, both with and without Hawke by his side – but nothing ever happened. He never received any word from those he hired that there seemed to any contact between Varania and anyone he knew to be associated in any way with Danarius. There was no word on them being attacked, none failed to check in, no one mentioned any odd meetings or customers who stayed a bit too long or spoke with Varania too much. He managed to send money out, bit by bit as he made it, either working to clean up the streets or taking mercenary work or winning it in gambling – though he quickly learned not to gamble against Varric if he wanted to have anything left to send to his sister – and every single time he managed anything, he kept watching his back, waiting for something to happen. Nothing. Every single time, it seemed his efforts worked without a hitch.

Which made little sense. If Danarius was as aware of Varania’s existence as Hadriana had been, then it would only make sense that the man would have people watching her to see if anything happened. Did he really not suspect that Fenris would be able to write? Did he truly not think a sudden influx of letters to be suspicious?

There was no way that could be true. Danarius _had_ to have something planned. He was certain of it.

Even now, with things so very close to culminating after over three years of work, he could only think things were about to blow up in his face.

Not that everything had gone perfectly, or even the way he’d hoped. For one thing, he’d learned that his mother had apparently died. He couldn’t even remember her, and now the chance to learn her face was lost to him forever. He’d wanted, so many times, to ask his sister what his mother had been like. But he couldn’t afford to show weakness when Danarius could be looming over his sister’s shoulder.

Beyond that, the fact that she’d left Master Ahriman’s service had slowed him down immensely. Over a year had been taken simply to locate her. Once he had, trying to get in touch with her without having anyone the wiser had been another problem and a half – he’d needed to make sure she’d be the one to receive his letter, without somehow raising suspicion that it was him contacting her. He’d finally decide on a female elven viddesala, one knew to Kirkwall but recognizable to him. She’d agreed to go on the mission if he gave her information to help her – information on Hawke. He’d hedged, willing to give information on Hawke’s relationship with the Arishok instead. Thankfully, she’d agreed.

He already knew Hawke would brush off the idea of him giving more personal information if it meant getting in touch with his family. He also knew placing Hawke in the path of the Qunari was something he could never do.

Once he’d managed to get in contact with her, it had been an agonizing three months before he’d received a response. It had mainly consisted of him being cursed out for daring to bring up what had happened to her brother. It had been… a relief. She’d called him an ‘infection-laced dick wart’. The only thing he could think was that there was someone who cared about him enough to curse out a complete stranger via a letter for daring to insinuate that he was her long-lost sibling.

Months – years – of back and forth. He had just returned from the Keep, from begging a favor from the guardwoman. Avelin had promised to look into it. His sister was on her way, by ship, to Kirkwall, thanks to his efforts. She was coming. He was going to meet her. The knowledge kept nipping around and around in his head. His body practically thrummed with the desire to rush out and meet her, see her even as she stepped off the docks. But he wasn’t so stupid. He hadn’t heard a word about Danarius. There was no way the man hadn’t stuck his fingers into this. It was only a matter of time.

Still. Still. If things went well, and he got to meet her?

For some reason, all he could think was that, if this could possibly go well – if he could find where Danarius was, or what he had planned, and could speak with Varania, anyway – he wanted her to meet Hawke.

He closed his eyes. He was doing this so that he could create roots that didn’t involve a male magic-user. So he had something to call his own. Something that would give him some sort of… something. He wanted a past. He wanted family.

He just wanted.

He had to do something about all this excess energy. He knew what. For three years, he’d worked every day to become stronger. He wanted to be able to protect that which was most precious to him. This chance at a family just brought that sentiment harder home; he needed to be able to protect Varania from Danarius, from the trouble he was certain to bring to her doorstep. She’d taken a huge risk in agreeing to come see him. She’d taken one, albeit unknowing, simply by accepting the letter the elven viddesala had handed her. He had to protect her.

And Hawke. He hadn’t heard any updates about the murderer stalking him, but he could assume. At the very least, nothing had changed. He was still being followed, still being harassed weekly by letters. It was only a matter of time, still, even now, before something happened to end that careful equilibrium. How Hawke had managed to survive so many years of fear was beyond him.

Hawke. Why was he thinking of Hawke when he was about to meet his sister? Was he truly so needy as to think of the man he’d turned from when he was about to get everything he’d been searching for? (And then some; he knew very well things couldn’t be so easy as all this. Time was far too small a price to pay.)

And then there was the stand-off he’d heard about that had happened just the other day. He’d chosen a fine time to call upon his sister; Hawke had managed to be pulled into an argument between Meredith and Orsino, the lead mage in the Circle. He had taken the mage’s side, called Meredith on her abuse of mages, and essentially gotten the woman’s attention planted firmly on him once more. Fenris didn’t know how to feel about the woman, personally. He believed her job, keeping mages in line, was a noble one. He also believed she would attack Azzan – Hawke – in an instant. Which made her his enemy as much as Hawke’s.

He practiced for hours, until the sun was beginning to curl toward the west. He didn’t know when to expect the woman; Varania’s ship was landing today, barring any unscheduled storms or pirates or other issues found on the sea. He heard when the door below opened; he tensed, sword in hand, until the steps clopped loudly up the stairs to his usual room. He sheathed his sword just as Aveline entered the room. “Fenris,” she said, tilting her head slightly in greeting.

“Aveline,” he said shortly. He nearly bounced out of his skin waiting for her to come inside the room and sit behind his desk. She moved with an unhurried walk. He nearly leaped out of his own skin. He had to either pace or go mad. He chose the former.

“She’s there,” she said, and he shivered. He hadn’t realized how afraid he’d been that Danarius had found her before he’d managed to get her to Kirkwall, how much he’d feared her being used as bait or taken and used as a sacrifice just to spite him, to anger him into returning. That, at least, had not happened. But perhaps he’d gotten to her, anyway. Perhaps she was a walking time bomb, a demon inside of her, just waiting to explode. Perhaps Danarius was watching her, had accompanied her… any number of possibilities. Anything. Despite the pacing, his heart still pounded in his chest.

“Are you certain it’s her?” he asked. His mind tripped over itself, trying to think of every way this could go wrong. There were far too many.

“An elf matching your description on the ship you named. And alone, as far as I could tell.” He paced back and forth. No one. Nothing. No sign or sound or smell of Danarius and his mage thugs.

No. This couldn’t be. It was too easy.

He slammed his hands on the desk. “I need to know if it’s a trap!”

“I did as you asked, Fenris,” she said, and her voice was so reasonable he wanted to scratch her throat. She stood. “Now it’s up to you.”

They shared glares for an instant before Aveline turned away. He glared down at his desk.

“You talk to him, Hawke. I’ve had my fill for today.”

 _Hawke_.

He bent his head. Of course Hawke was here. The man had impeccable timing. He shook his head and pushed himself back up straight, cursing under his breath. Now not only did he have all the problems with his sister, but he also had Hawke before him. The man who seemed to take helping others as his bread and wine. Or perhaps his true calling in life. Or perhaps, if he didn’t help others, he would find himself sick under the malady of some unknown curse and would trip over dead.

And… and yet he couldn’t help the fact that, right now, as everything came to a head, there wasn’t anyone he wanted to see more.

Hawke stepped closer. “Maybe I can help, Fenris.”

He closed his eyes. How many times had Hawke said exactly that? To how many people? And how many times had his offer been a balm to them? Had they felt like this? Like… like, if they turned to him, leaned on him, he would shoulder their load without question, and help them through the path ahead? Did they feel like everything in the world was trying to set itself right?

He sighed and gave up. “It’s my sister.” He found himself pacing again. A half-beat gave him no questions, no accusations. Hawke said nothing. He simply let Fenris continue. Perhaps he hadn’t understood. Perhaps he didn’t care. “I didn’t tell you, but I followed up on Hadriana’s information.” He looked at Hawke. The man stood before him, just… listening. “Everything she said was true. I had to keep it quiet, but I eventually contacted Varania and gave her coin enough to come meet me. And now she’s here.”

Hawke seemed to digest this information. Fenris had seen him do this before. Parse together what he could, choose the most important thing to focus on at a time. Yet for some reason he wanted Hawke to be selfish, just this once. To ask why he hadn’t been told – why, of all people, Fenris had gone to Aveline first, and hadn’t gone to Hawke at all. He wanted Hawke to ask if there’d been something lacking in him. He wanted to… to tell Hawke that it hadn’t been him, that Fenris had wanted to do this for himself, on his own. That leaning on Hawke would have made it Hawke’s victory, and he couldn’t have that. He had to claim his past for himself.

But Hawke didn’t ask. Instead he said, “she was in Qarinus, after all?”

Fenris’ heart tripped. Hawke had remembered. Such a stupid, silly, inconsequential conversation, spoken about something that didn’t touch his life. And he remembered the location Hadriana had said his sister resided. He took a deep breath. Had… had Hawke looked? The idea seemed so impossible, so – so _likely_ – that, for a moment, Fenris found himself unable to breathe. “My sister,” he said, and his voice was weak. _Fenedhis!_ “She left Master Ahriman’s service, and I found her in Minrathous.” Those long black lashes seemed to flicker. So yes, Hawke had likely searched for her, himself. And when he had failed to find her, he had offered Fenris those books. A silent sort of apology for failing. Maker help him, his heart felt ready to burst out of his chest. “That made things more difficult. But, according to the men I paid, it’s just as Hadriana said. She’s not a slave. She’s a tailor, in fact.” He couldn’t help the small smile as the thought came to him, once again, of how ridiculous and precious it was to have a tailor for a sister.

Hawke just kept staring. Saying nothing. Without asking anything, somehow the man got Fenris to give him everything.

“Getting a letter to her was difficult,” he said, spilling the entire damned story from his lips, “and she didn’t believe me at first, but… she’s finally come.”

Why in Andraste’s name did saying all of this feel like a purging? He looked down at his feet, surprised. He no longer paced. Slowly, he looked back up at Hawke, still standing a respectful distance away. Hawke seemed to chew on the information for a moment, then, “you’re worried Danarius knows.”

Fenris grimaced. “The more it seems he doesn’t know, the more certain I become he does.” He stepped forward, breaching the gap between them himself. “Come with me, Hawke. I need you there when I meet her.”

Hawke seemed… surprised. The man nodded. “Where is she?”

If Hawke was asked for help, he would give it. Yet somehow, this felt like more. “If we go to The Hanged Man during the day, she’ll be there. For the next week, at least.” It was where he’d told her to meet up with him. Where he’d said he would find her. A place he knew well, with a friend – two friends, now that Isabela had suddenly returned – waiting in the wings should something go wrong. And now Hawke.

He had pushed the man away over and over again, and yet here he stood, offering help without a moment’s thought. His heart felt uneven and heavy, as if something was pressing down on it. His hands shook. “It would mean a lot to me,” he said, barely able to look Hawke in the eye. “That’s all I ask.”

Hawke smiled. “You don’t even have to do that,” he said.

Maker. Help him. He was in far too deep.

* * *

Hawke begged Fenris give him a few hours to put things together. Fenris nodded, stunned to see Hawke put everything and anything else on hold the instant he learned Fenris needed help. After so many years, nothing of the sort should shock him, and yet it did. His heart was nearly in his throat when he gave his acquiescence. Hawke nearly raced out of the mansion, swearing to be back as soon as possible.

The man was likely getting things prepared. Of course he was; he would prepare for the chance that his sister was not alone – that Danarius was somehow involved – and he would likely prepare for – for his sister being who she was, without artifice. Fenris didn’t know if he could prepare for the same. He had spent so many years simply trying to reach her and get her to believe he was who he said he was, his mind constantly worrying over Danarius, that now that he had a chance to breathe, he didn’t think he could find the right words if things happened to turn out well.

It was as if a load had been lifted from his shoulders. Suddenly he was thinking about what to say to his long-lost sister, when before all he’d been able to focus on was the threat Danarius posed. Just knowing that Hawke would be with him stole the largest lump of dread from his breast.

For once, he was allowing himself the chance to look forward to this meeting.

* * *

He should have known.

He should have known. He should have known. He should have known.

The thought looped in an endless cycle, chasing him as he fought slaver after slaver, demon after demon. Hawke stood just behind him, keeping close to ensure Fenris felt his magic on his skin. Still, Hawke was worked overtime; he caught the man, more than once, pulling mana in order to help heal the scrapes of the shades’ claws. Isabela, originally standing on the sidelines sipping her ale, had joined the fight with a short battle cry. The instant Hawke had said that Fenris belonged to no one – words that still made something like sunlight burst in his chest – Varric had joined, as well. With them, Sebastian, and Aveline, they were turning the tides, even against Danarius’ demonic army.

Varania stood out of the way, against the wall, simply watching. Watching as Fenris fought desperately for his freedom. As Hawke put his own life, and those of his friends, on the line to protect him.

He fought. What other choice did he have? He fought, even as the deluge of memories washed over him again. The wilted flowers in a small, chipped vase, placed there by his mother after he and Varania plucked them, secretly, from the courtyard as a present for her birthday. He remembered mock battles – he’d often be the one in distress; Varania had preferred to be the hero back then. She would come to rescue him. Sometimes he would get the chance to rescue her, but usually, if he played the hero, then she played the hero, too, and the horses or the pigs took on the job of the evil army.

He remembered. He remembered, even as the walls of his old prison closed around him.

Leto. A name that sounded foreign. His name. His past.

This was what his past had brought him.

Hawke kept them alive as Danarius focused on them all, one by one. Only once did Fenris falter, as he saw Danarius burst the tavern wide with one of his explosive spells, only to hear Hawke scream. He turned to find Hawke spasming where he stood, as if the shards had ripped through his very soul.

“Got a spirit in you, champion?” Danarius chuckled, and Fenris paled. Whatever Danarius had done, it had injured the spirit within Hawke. The spirit that was now linked irreversibly to Hawke’s life itself.

Unacceptable.

“Danarius!” The lyrium on his body burned so hot it should have blistered. He used its power to launch himself forward, leaping over the corpses the man had somehow raised – likely having created them himself in preparation – and swung his sword hard at the man’s face. Behind him, he heard Varric sound off a number – another corpse down – and Sebastian’s simple prayer – another felled. The feel of Hawke’s warmth surrounded him, filled him. The man was fine. Healed. Fenris’ sword missed its target as Danarius retreated back, toward the center of the room. He pressed forward. Danarius’ foot faltered. It seemed simple now, as Danarius’ mana finally ran dry. A pommel strike to the man’s chest, and he was on the floor. Fenris dropped his sword and charged up before he could recover.

Danarius, panting, coughing on the ground, gazed up at him with eyes that _knew_. Fenris reached down and plucked him up by his throat. The man grabbed Fenris’ hand, even as it glowed. Here, now, with something like understanding and fury marking those eyes, Danarius finally looked just like everyone else. Weak. Beatable. Like the Arishok, he stood strong, but was mortal. Fenris bared his teeth. Let this man see his fangs.

“ _You are no longer my master.”_

He crushed the man’s throat. It slipped a bit in his grasp; blood burst thick from the puncture of Fenris’ clawed gauntlet. He gripped tighter still, until he felt the Adam’s apple break, until he clutched the spine itself. With a flare of lyrium, even that snapped like a twig.

He turned to his sister.

With things changed up and her benefactor dead, she no longer looked so calm and collected. She ducked low even as he watched, her small hands reaching to cover her face. As if she could stop him. As if she deserved him stopping.

“I had no choice, Leto,” she said. Her voice asked him to understand. Her eyes said she would do it again.

He stalked forward until she was mere inches from him. “Stop calling me that!”

“He was going to make me his apprentice,” she said. “I would have been a magister.”

A magister. “You sold out your own brother to become a magister?” One who would be apprentice to Danarius after giving him up. She would have been willing to watch him return to slavery, to see him once again become Danarius’ dog, in order to raise up her own position. She would have willingly become his next Hadriana.

“You have no idea what we went through. What I’ve had to do since mother died. This was my only chance.”

His fingers clenched. The lyrium on him flared again, white hot. He reached out. “And now you have no chance at all.”

“Please, don’t do this,” she said, ducking low again, scooting back toward the stairs so he had to chase after her. She turned to look behind him – to Hawke. “Please, tell him to stop.”

Hawke touched his arm. The tiniest contact, little more than a brush against his armor. “Wait. Don’t kill her.”

“Why not?” he said, rounding on the man, furious that she’d reached for him and, like always, the man had answered. Answered _her_. “She was ready to see me killed.” He glared down at her. “What is she to me other than just one more tool of the magisters?”

Azzan opened his mouth, then closed it. “This is your family, Fenris,” he said. It sounded like a slight.

“Elf – Fenris.” Varric stepped forward. “I know how hard this is to believe, but this is the last thing you want to do.”

He looked back at Hawke. The man seemed to be forcing himself silent. Fenris nearly snapped at him before he understood. Hawke didn’t want to force him to decide. He had just won his freedom – something that hadn’t even sunk in yet. This – this moment, here and now, was his first choice as a free man. Hawke would not take that from him.

But at the same time, Hawke truly didn’t want him to kill her.

He looked away. His choice. But he knew the truth, something Hawke did not. This was not his first choice as a free man. That choice had been when he’d run. That had been his first moment as a free man, and every choice beyond that had been his. He had had years to come to this realization, after turning away from Hawke and choosing to ignore what they had together. Choice sometimes meant that, in the heat of the moment, one might make a horrible mistake, one for which, as a free man, he alone would have to face the consequences.

He glared at his so-called sister. “Get out.”

Hawke stepped aside, giving her a clear route of escape. She took exactly six steps before she stopped. “You said you didn’t ask for this,” she said, and he knew she was looking at him, “but that’s not true. You wanted it. You competed for it. When you won, you used the boon to have mother and I freed.”

He couldn’t breathe. He turned to her, saw the look on her face. The… condemnation. The lack of empathy. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Freedom was no boon.” Her brows drew low. Her chin lifted high. “I look on you now and think you received the better end of the bargain.”

She left. She left, and everything shattered. He’d dared let himself look _forward_ to this. He’d dared hope. He’d reached out for his past, for something to hold on to, only to find there had been nothing there from the start. He hung his head. “I thought discovering my past would bring a sense of belonging.” The words spilled from his mouth. He turned to Hawke.

He always turned to Hawke.

“But I was wrong. Magic has tainted that, too.” He looked up. Hawke’s face. It looked like he’d taken a blow. Like he was trying to stand strong against something too painful to name. Fenris wondered if he looked like that. He looked away. “There is nothing for me to reclaim. I am alone.”

Hawke stepped close. Breached the gap between them. “I’m here, Fenris.”

Those deep blue eyes did not falter from him. They never did. Not in all these years. Fenris reached out to those eyes, that cheek. Alone… was not accurate. He had been searching in his past for something to help him belong. He’d been… such a fool.

He saw the lines on his arm and dropped it, turning away again. He wanted to burn them off. He wanted to scratch at them, pluck them like veins. He feared how deep the lyrium ran in his blood after all these years. “You heard what Varania said. I wanted these.” He held out his arms as he faced Hawke again. “I fought for them. I feel unclean. Like this magic is not only etched into my skin, but has also stained my soul.” He threw his shoulders back. “Let’s go. I need to get out of here.”

They left. Fenris didn’t watch where they went, only noted that Hawke led him out of the building, away from Lowtown. He expected to find himself in Hightown when he looked up; perhaps taken back to his home like some whipped dog. That was what he felt like. But instead, when he blinked into awareness some time later, it was to find them walking the bowels of Darktown, heading deliberately deeper into its pits. Hawke didn’t speak – hadn’t spoken for some time. It wasn’t odd for him, but for Varric, and even Aveline, it was. He looked around. The walls were flaked and chipped, the ground caked with grime. People hunched into themselves at the corners, staring at them wide-eyed as they made their way boldly past. He looked over to see the broad line of shoulders draped in that soft robe. Those shoulders stood straight, unfaltering. He stepped forward, a single pace faster. “Hawke?”

The man jerked. He looked behind him. Smiled. “I thought you might like something to take your mind off of things.”

Something. Meaning a battle. After everything that had happened with Danarius, this man was choosing to start another fight. For him.

Already, his body hummed with the need to act. To _do_ something. He grinned. “You know me well, Hawke.”

Hawke smiled again. It looked strained.

The man must have been tired. Fenris would have to get his fill quickly, lest Hawke use up too much mana indulging him.

They did find a fight, of course; down there, they managed to find, of all things, a slaver hideout, with two women already unconscious and bound in a back room. Aveline and Varric stood back, their weapons ready. Only Hawke stepped up to fight with him. It was liberating to free himself of thought and simply react, to crush the heart of one of the slavers in his fist and shout that they will never again take the freedom from another.

Freedom was no boon? Freedom was the one _boon_ a person was supposed to have from birth. It was terrible, and painful, and gritty, and it was the only thing that ever mattered. The freedom to make mistakes. The freedom to choose when to eat or sleep or speak. The freedom to live. The freedom to love.

Freedom was no boon, but she’d wanted to be a magister. Someone with all the freedom in Tevinter. Even the freedom to turn her brother over like a lost pet.

He roared as he sliced one, two men in twain with a single swing, his body crouching as the blood spilled all around him, already pushing forward, calves straining, bunching in a recorded rhythm after years of practice. He sliced straight across the final man’s chest, just under his reaching arms. When he fell, Fenris stood straight, barely winded, energy still charging through him. He glared down at the red on his sword, angry that he wanted more. Angry that he was angry still. He forced himself to clean the blade and placed it back in its holster on his back. “What did you want to say?”

Nothing. Silence. He turned to Hawke. The man just stared at him for several seconds before pointing to himself. “Me?”

“Yes. You. At the tavern. There was something you wanted to say. What?”

He still had his staff out, but when Fenris made no move to continue his rampage, he put it away. His gaze darted away for a moment, then down to the ground. He took a deep breath and met Fenris’ gaze. “Her actions – what she did.” He cleared his throat. Those deep blue eyes burned. “That’s on her. It speaks on who _she_ is, not who _you_ are. But what _you_ do – that’s what defines you. And you – you would always think, always wonder, just who it was who was able to kill his sister like that.”

Fenris flinched.

Azzan didn’t look happy to have spoken the words aloud. But Fenris was. Because he was right. Now, away from her, away from the poison she’d spewed – victorious, with himself and Hawke and Varric and the others still safe, still whole – he could imagine, years down the line, looking back at that moment and wondering if he could have done things differently. If he could have done as Varric and Hawke had done, with brothers who were cruel or rude to them, one even with a brother who had left him to die, and still somehow choosing to keep the man alive, to let them live, even at his own expense. He didn’t know if he could ever think such a thing now, but maybe then. Maybe later. Maybe he might wonder why his first instinct had been to kill. What that made him, when his friends had been able to be so much more.

He took a deep breath. Instead, even in his rage, he had let himself listen to those he trusted and… he closed his eyes. He had let her go. Even after her parting remark, even after she’d clawed at his heart one last time. Still, even then, he had let her go.

His markings were unclean. His past was unclean. But… but, since then, what had he become? He only felt unclean after reaching for that past, after being sullied by Tevinter and magic all over again.

But before him, lying in this Darktown pit, were two women whose lives he’d saved. He may have raged and killed to stave off his own feeling of impotence, but his rage had led him here. It had been pointed in a direction he’d chosen. He moved to those women, knelt before them. They were still unconscious, even through all that. “They need to be healed,” he said, and just like that, the conversation was dropped. Hawke knelt by his side. With a single hand, he reached out that cool breeze, that summer warmth that could only be part and parcel to the man’s very soul. The women’s eyes fluttered open. “It’s all right,” Fenris said, his voice gentle as the women tensed. “We’ve killed the men who took you from your homes. You’re safe.” He reached out and broke the ropes binding them with a flare of the lyrium within him. “You’re free.”

The women looked around, turned from the sight of the bodies behind them. They smiled at him. “Thank you,” one said. She took his proffered hand. One looked at Hawke, taking his hand as he offered it. The woman murmured a soft thank you to him.

“Thank him,” Hawke said, nodding to Fenris. “He’s the one who saved you.”

Fenris flushed as the woman turned to him and bowed slightly. When she looked back up at him, it was with a beaming smile. “You’re a friend of the champion,” she said. “I’ve seen you in Hightown before. Thank you. Thank you so much. You saved our lives.”

They weren’t going to be killed. They must have known that, or had some inkling. But to these women, losing their freedom would have been akin to death. The woman speaking to him was in finery, her yellow dress stained with grime and dirt. The other wore little more than brown rags. Still, her smudged face couldn’t hide the bright hazel of her eyes or the full pout of her lips. She’d been pretty enough to be kept alive. And even she had thanked him for saving her.

Unlike his sister, these two, born into freedom, wanted it with all of their might. They understood. In preserving their freedoms, he’d preserved their lives.

“We’ll take you home,” he said, already knowing Hawke would want to do that, anyway. They turned at the sound of footsteps, the women cringing again until they saw the guard uniform Aveline wore as she came abreast of them. “We’re… friends… with the guard captain here. She’ll make sure you’re safe.”

“You have my word,” Aveline said. She took the lead, Varric taking up the other side of the women, bringing them into easy conversation in mere seconds. Fenris stared at the dwarf in amazement before turning to Hawke. The man wasn’t taking the lead, which was odd enough. But there was something more in his eyes that Fenris couldn’t understand. “Hawke?”

The man just shook his head. That smile graced those lips again. Fenris knew better. He knew when Hawke was forcing himself. “Sorry,” he said. “Not a good time for the puns, huh?” At Fenris’ raised eyebrow, Hawke just tilted his head. “If these women want to come with us, they should _feel free?”_

Fenris closed his eyes. He should have known better.

Hawke laughed. It sounded a bit forced, but it served to break whatever remaining tension lined the women’s shoulders. Nothing like seeing the Champion of Kirkwall laugh to make people believe there was nothing that could go wrong with the world.

But Fenris knew better. The line of those shoulders was just a hair too stiff, that laugh a bit too loud. There was something wrong.

And he would get to the bottom of it.

* * *

Hawke kept them busy the rest of the day. After they brought the women home, he and Aveline spoke with the families to learn where the women had gone, and they’d traversed up and down both Hightown and Lowtown, following the paths the women had taken until they managed to root out a small group of slavers hiding in an alley two turns from The Hanged Man. After that, they went on a ‘quest’ – Varric, at this point, had become positively verbose as a means to distract them all from how quiet Hawke was becoming – to fetch more elfroot for health potions, then, as the evening wore thin, they went down to the docks and hunted up a few muggers.

When it was over, night had come hard and fast, and the streets were filled more with the chirping of stray crickets than with people going about their business. They’d made their way back to Hightown, Aveline heading to the Keep while Varric made his way back to Lowtown, perfectly safe thanks to his spy network. It left Hawke and Fenris alone, and Fenris turned to the man.

After his horrible joke down in Darktown, Hawke’s willingness to talk had dwindled to practically nothing. He’d answered questions when asked, chimed in when people mused aloud about something. But when it came to chatter, Hawke fell horribly silent. Even for a man who usually spent more time listening than talking, it was odd for him to barely speak at all. And for a man who usually spoke eloquently, to have those answers become shorter and shorter as the night wore on… something was wrong.

“Hawke?”

The man didn’t respond. Fenris walked around him, until he was looking into Hawke’s face. Those eyes… something was wrong with them. Fenris frowned. “Hawke. Answer me.”

Hawke blinked several times. “Fenris,” he breathed. He gritted his teeth. “I… should get you home.”

_Something was wrong._

“Hawke.” He gripped the man’s wrist, only to find Hawke, for the first time, yanking his hand away as if Fenris’ touch burned. Fenris pulled his hand back.

“Sorry,” Hawke said. But he didn’t look up. He didn’t meet Fenris’ gaze. His fingers curled in to his sides. “Let’s just get you home.”

Hawke was exhausted, yes. He would have to be, after dropping everything to help Fenris with his sister, only to be attacked by Danarius and his men. Then to pick fights all around the city, just to help Fenris stave off his frustration. But this was far more than mere physical strain. It was… it looked like Hawke was in pain.

Hawke hadn’t said anything about it, but he must have been hurting. Throughout everything, Fenris had refused to go to him, even once. As if he didn’t trust Hawke, or expect him to help. He knew he owed Hawke an explanation. A proper one. He’d thought he was helping himself, earning his own way. Perhaps he’d just been pushing away what he’d managed to find. Someone who loved him enough to want to help.

Hawke was tired. Trying to fix it tonight would mean nothing. Especially since he didn’t even know how to explain himself, or even why he should have to. It felt like… like, now that he was seeing Hawke tired – now that, for the first time, Hawke had pushed him away, he was seeing what Fenris’ actions must have felt like to the human.

His chest hurt. He feared reaching for that hand again.

“I’ll be fine, Hawke.” His words got Hawke to look at him, at least. He found himself smiling, just a little bit. Because it was true, and it was only beginning to hit him. “Danarius is dead. His men, his slavers, will disperse now that there’s nothing to gain from chasing me down.” He could walk back to the mansion without worrying about who might be waiting for him. He was free. It felt… well, it felt like he no longer had to look over his shoulder, toward the past. But looking forward… looking forward showed him nothing but an endless, blank expanse. “Get some rest. I know all of this must have tired you.”

Hawke nodded, though it seemed like he was just agreeing with Fenris by rote. “Tired. Right.” He blinked a few times. “You’ll be all right?”

“I will,” he said. Hawke stiffened, but nodded and turned away.

Fenris watched the man as he headed to his home. This tingling feeling in his hand, the desire to reach out, meshed horribly with the fear of another rejection. This sick dread must have been Hawke’s fear all these years. How badly had it hurt, when Fenris had looked down on him that morning after and declared that he was leaving? How badly had the rejection stung when Fenris had told him that night may have been wonderful, but it would never happen again? And then again, when, after facing that rejection with such aplomb, Fenris showed he wasn’t turning to Hawke even as a friend, even when it was for something as important as his sister?

He stared at his hand. Never, not once, had Hawke turned him aside. The man may be tired physically, but Fenris thought he might finally be tired emotionally, as well.

If that was the case, then where would he go? What would he do? There was no future for him. No path to take. He’d thought… with his sister… what had he thought, exactly? That he would find that path? Understand his past? Have something to hold on to, something that wouldn’t fade the moment he settled into the afterglow within Hawke’s arms? His reasoning had seemed so clear just hours ago. Now… now, he wasn’t so sure.

He would… have to think on it. He stared at his fingers, traced the lines of lyrium until they reached his fingertips. They pointed unerringly toward Hawke’s door. There were many things to ponder on, in fact.

For better or worse, at least now he had the time.


End file.
